The Circumstances Under Which Mudmask Lost His Eye
by washbear
Summary: This is the story about how a troll came to depart with his right eye. You wouldn't think that would happen, not to a Durotar homebody like Mudmask. But you see he ran into this Draenei while out on a mission, and it seemed like a coincidence at the time, but now we're not so sure. The only thing we are sure about is his eye. He's going to lose it. Shame, really.
1. The Thing About Fan Fiction: Disclaimers

This is the story of how Mudmask (druid, leatherworker, escape artist) came to lose his right eye. While this is told as a labor of love from an unpracticed storyteller, it ultimately comes with a few disclaimers. They are as follows:

Warcraft and the World thereof are not my intellectual property. That credit goes to Blizzard, and all of the hard-working minds behind it.

I will be doing my absolute best to keep my writing in canon with Azeroth Lore and locations. The research I do/have done is circumstantial – i.e.: if in the course of my word weavery I need to know about say, troll cuss words, I look it up and move on from there.

I have elected to rate the story "M". It's not that I'm setting out to write graphic violence or explicit adult material, but I never tend to know what turns a story is going to take until I write it, so while I can pledge that I'm not here to write smut I can't promise that someone isn't going to have sex with someone else and then minutes later maul someone completely different and then cuss up a storm about it. So here we are.

I take my writing seriously, even when I'm writing shamelessly geeky fan fiction, so I welcome critiques, gripes, and compliments. Accordingly because I'm picky, the title, the chapters, and the titles of chapters are all subject to minor tweaks and adjustments.

Thank you for your time and attention. Let's get on with it shall we?


	2. The Nature of Coincidence

The sun shone brightly over Durotar that day, though Mudmask was not there to see it. It had been three months since the events that drew him away from his hometown, and from his mucky vantage point in Dustwallow Marsh, to say that he was homesick was an understatement.

It wasn't that taking on his cat form made him more apt to dislike water, but there was a certain indignity to wading chest deep in a swamp as the grey sky leaked down through the trees. Spirits moaned in the distance, Mudmask did his best to avoid acknowledging it. Now and then a crocolisk would wander too close and he would have to shoo it away, but for the most part he was alone… and waiting.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mane of the raindrops that had collected there. His paws sunk deep into the muck beneath him, and he shuffled to free them if only for a moment. Though his eyes were squinted partially in an effort to keep out the rain, his gaze remained focused on a nearby camp which belonged to a troublesome clan of dragonkin. In an effort to maintain his "hero for hire" attitude that had led him from home in the first place, Mudmask had agreed to this particular instance of slaying the clan leader, Shok'ro. His plan had been to wait until the main body of Shok'ro's troops had left for their daily hunt. What he had neglected to factor in however, was that Dustwallow was a miserable place, prone to miserable weather and miserable company. He folded his ears back as he sneezed.

Inevitably, his mind wandered to help him escape from his surroundings. He remembered running through the jungles with raptor hatchlings, the feeling of warm sand beneath his feet. The days wherein he first began his druidic training seemed so far away, and yet he recalled with certain vividness the feeling he experienced when he first learned how to shape shift. The strength of taking bear form overwhelmed him. And the sheer swiftness and fluidity he felt as a tiger made him feel safe somehow. He couldn't recall however, just how long it had been since he had last spent a decent amount of time as a troll. Not only could he not remember, but he was not troubled by it.

Granted, spending such long amounts of time traveling alone as an animal had its effects on how he held conversations. More and more it was becoming a trial to return to the cities. Conducting proper business meant doing so in a civilized way, and while trolls were often known for being "wild", all members of the Darkspear were as civilized as any other member of the Horde.

Lopside, his foster brother and childhood antagonist had teased him mercilessly about Mudmask's penchant for feline form the last time they crossed paths.

"You been spendin' all ya life not wantin' to be a troll, and so now ya escape by bein' a cat. Nonsense, mon, where's ye pride?"

It was not a new thing for Lopside to criticize his adopted brother, and embarrassingly enough there was some truth behind his teasing. After his village had been leveled by a raid led by the Alliance-driven Draeni people, much of Mudmask's youth had been spent at an Orcish orphanage. Confused by his earliest memories of being surrounded by a small band of Draeni who had protected him and turned him over to the orphanage, he experienced a degree of body dismorphia over not only looking different from the figures in his memory, but also standing out from the other children at the orphanage. The physical differences between himself and his peers had only been highlighted by the advent of his tusks coming in – even for a troll they were unusually long. To Mudmask, this was shameful; even after being taken in by a small tribe of Darkspear, the topic of his tusks always seemed to make him self conscious. To Lopside, this was absurd.

"You could be havin' all the honies you be wantin' wit dose tings, Muds. Why you gotta spit on the gift dat de spirits gave ye? Certainly ye would not be gettin' close to the numbers of ladies I be impressin' upon, but you'll not be getting' nottin' actin' like you pinin' for da pink skins."

Jealousy always seemed to tint the words that Lopside would say to Mudmask, whether it was via scrutiny or jokes. But as Mudmask got older, he did his best to abandon the silly embarrassments he felt and start finding the pride in his people.

In the grand scheme of things, Mudmask was a strapping example of his species. Were it not for the telltale Troll "hunch" he stood 7'6" tall. A life in druidism left him less muscular than some of his counterparts, but the nature of shifting sculpted his body to be lean and sinewy nonetheless. His tusks sloped down from his upper jaw, long and somewhat cumbersome; still, they managed to be intimidating even if he didn't intend it. As he approached middle age, his hair had prematurely transitioned to a cool grey, and he took to keeping it in braids instead of letting it stick straight up as it was always want to do. Like many other Trolls, he adopted face paint as a typical adornment, donning a "mask" of his own signified by a white band smudged across his eyes. Lopside had been right, he had the means to attract the "honies", and indeed it contributed to a revitalized sense of esteem. Admitting that his younger self was functioning under ridiculous self-set standards didn't necessarily stop Lopside from bringing it up however, as was evident in his teasing over the topic of shape shifting.

Mudmask hid the severity of the situation well enough, blaming it on needing to spend more time in shifted forms to accommodate traveling and skirmishes. In reality – it was simply just how he preferred things. Besides, it was not like there was any escape from his tusks; they protruded every bit as much in animal form as they did in his troll body, and at this point it suited him just fine.

Well… apart from when he found himself sitting in swamp water waiting for his chance to infiltrate the wretched excuse for a dragonkin camp, but that would have been the case no matter what form he could take.

His ruminations were interrupted by a clap of thunder. Shaking himself and gazing back towards the main gate of the settlement, he realized that the noise was not thunder but a gong being pummeled behind the walls. It was time.

Mudmask sunk back, fogging his appearance as thoroughly as he could so he would not be seen. The gates creaked open, and the ground began to shake slightly with the rumble of dozens of feet hitting the earth. They emerged in a herd, kicking up mud, roaring with the excitement of the hunt. The druid shared the Horde's distaste for the dragonkin. Loud, crass, and violent, their sense of self entitlement to dominate the lands they occupied was frustrating on some days and devastating on others. Their bodies were large and cumbersome, their settlements even more so. More centauric crocodiles than dragon, they still prided themselves for hosting dragon blood and to them, they owned the world.

Whether at the cost of their thundering enthusiasm or simply because they were too dumbed by excitement to notice, Mudmask slipped by the stampede and in through the gates of the settlement. Immediately his senses were accosted with the sight of carcasses draped over boulders, the smells of rotting meat and unwashed soldiers. Few dragonkin remained behind, keeping a loose sentry at the three entrances. The encampment was circular in shape, with a large marshy pond taking up much of the western side. To the south was a gaping mouth of a cave, which was where Mudmask presumed Shok'ro resided. Deep within the cave he could see the glowing pulses of flickering fires and bubbling fissures. The air emerging from the maw was hot; even from his stance outside the cave it thickly filled his nostrils. He turned his head to inhale one last breath of fresh air, cringing briefly as he was reminded of how much the camp stunk, and then plunged himself into the darkness.

Inside, the air was worse. The damp heat filled his nose and burned the inside of his lungs. His initial instinct was to turn away but the humidity surrounded him, permeating everything. Even the ground seemed scalding, and after a few minutes of following the main tunnel his paws felt raw and blistered.

Still he pressed on; taking note of how odd it was that he had yet to encounter any guards. As if to respond to his observation, the ground suddenly gave way under his left paw, the searing earth replaced by a squishy, scaly texture. He withdrew immediately, reeling back and preparing to attack, but to his befuddlement what stood before him was the corpse of a dead dragonkin. Curiouser still, the body was littered with arrows as well as bite marks. Someone had been here, someone perhaps with an animal companion.

Mudmask pressed on, and encountered two more dragonkin laying dead at his feet. His feelings were mixed with relief for not having to fight them and apprehension that someone had beat him to his assassination. It was a suspicion he discarded as he approached the main chamber and could hear the hulking snorts of Shok'ro. Mayhaps whoever had come here had failed in their task - Mudmask had no intention of letting his fate be the same.

As he prepared to execute his pounce upon the tyrant lizard, his focus was broken by the sound of a drawing bow. He backed himself against a cave wall quickly so as not to be seen, and was shocked to see a young female Draenei lurking in the shadows, her weapon trained on Shok'ro. He gaped, unsure of what the proper protocol in this situation would be. This was a thought process interrupted by a sudden yet small eruption from an unnoticed fissure beneath him. The heat seared his chest, causing his camouflage to slip as he uttered a small growl in pain.

The Draenei in response gasped, and the two stared at each other stupidly at each other for what seemed a terribly long time.

It was Shok'ro who snapped their attention back to the den. "You DARE to enter my chamber?! Troublesome fools, this shall become your grave!" Taking up his spear with an unexpected swiftness, the draconic lord lunged at the two would-be assassins.

The Draenei was the first to strike; using her bow she immediately shot three arrows into the neck of the beast. It didn't seem to affect him much, but it gave Mudmask the opportunity to leap behind the creature and rake his claws across his back. Shok'ro reeled and whipped Mudmask back with a swift lash of his tail as he turned around to face the druid. Mudmask recovered quickly, rolling to his feet and giving one more swipe before calling upon his bear form. His body swelled, lean feline muscles melding into the hunching bulk of a grizzly. He roared at the dragon leader and charged, using his tusks to keep Shok'ro's spear at bay.

Time was moving all too quickly. Looking back on it, Mudmask would remember that it seemed like more and more arrows were simply appearing on the brute by the second. More than once his pelt was slashed by the monster's weapon, and Mudmask was sent more deeply into an animalistic frenzy. In a fight, the bear mentality often overcame his own, so much so that he couldn't recall half the battles he fought as a bear. Such was the price for imbuing himself with the protection that the form offered.

Blood seemed to be rushing to every part of his body. He thought at one point that he saw a flash of brown fur, and if he had heard a growl that wasn't his, he took no notice. The heat in the air was accelerating his growing fatigue. As if to ignore it, he stood up on his hind legs with the aim of clawing through more vital areas of his aggressor's body. To his surprise, it was not a final blow from him that brought Shok'ro down. Mid-swipe, the beast fell, bleeding not just from Mudmask's assault but from the multitude of arrows that protruded at all angles from his body.

As he felt the rage of the bear leave him, he released the shape shifting spell and let his form meld back to his Troll self - he needed to collect his trophy anyways.

He squatted down near the head of the clan leader, and was only reminded of his company by the sound of an arrow being drawn from a quiver. He looked across the scaly body to see the Draenei standing on the other side of the chamber, arrow aimed at the only Troll in the room.

"I imagine you'll be wantin' to reconsider shootin' that arrow," Mudmask said in a low voice, "Seein' as I was the one takin' the brunt of that damage for ya." He spoke in Orcish, figuring it was his best chance of having her understand him. Regardless of whether or not she did, he did the best to suppress his Zandali accent, figuring that he did not want to further any particular stereotypes that Alliance members held for Trolls.

The Draenei said nothing. Like most of the females of her species, she was thinly built upon slender hooves. Her skin was a foggy purple color, and her horns seemed oddly large for the small frame of her face. Her dark hair was tussled from the fury of the fight, but considering that she had stood at a distance firing her arrows for the duration of the fight, it was clear that Mudmask was the one who emerged worse for wear from the whole situation. As if to try to test her understanding, he added "You be welcome, by the way."

It was with great hesitation that the hunter replied; whether it was due to her processing the words or out of sheer distaste for conversing with the Horde, Mudmask was unsure.

"Move away from the dragon and I will lower my bow." Her Orcish was slow and clumsy, as though she were considering the taste of the words on her tongue.

"I be more than happy to do that, as soon as I remove the head from this beast's body." Mudmask brandished his knife, keeping it low as not to seem threatening.

"No, his head I must bring back to my people." Her grip on the bow did not loosen.

They stood regarding each other for a moment, sizing each other up. Clearly they had reached an impasse. Mudmask wondered if enough of his energy had recovered to permit him to return to bear form should the Draenei decide to let slip her arrow from the bow.

"Quite the predicament we have here, then. Don't suppose ye be interested in flippin' a coin then?" He gave her a smile, tightening the grip on his knife. Whether by pure coincidence or an astounding attention to detail, the hunter responded to this action by firing the bow. Mudmask gathered his strength, wincing slightly from his wounds, and condensed himself into his flight form – a large, tusked bat. Dodging the first arrow, he dove at the Draenei, but not before she had already launched a second arrow straight through his left wing.

Faltering clumsily, he once again pulled his energy and melded into his cat form. He landed heavily a few bounds in front of his attacker, and as he made to lunge, he felt an impact at his right side which knocked him from his feet.

In hind sight, of course it made sense for the hunter to have a pet nearby. It was something he had neglected to take note of during his frenzied experience as a bear. But there it was, a mastiff, boring into his side furiously while the blasted woman kept shooting at him.

He clawed at the dog wildly, swinging his head in an attempt to gore the blighter with his tusks. At last the animal yelped and leapt a few paces back. The drawback to this was that now the hunter felt more confident in her ability to dispatch arrows without the fear of hitting her companion. Mudmask kept his body low to the ground as he rushed at her. When he was but a few paces in front of her she withdrew a cruel looking mace, but her eyes flickered with uncertainty – it was clear she was not as confident with this weapon as she was her bow.

To accelerate her loss of confidence, Mudmask let out a roar and swiped his paw towards her legs, knocking her off her feet. He had her, there was no way she could overcome the size or power of his cat form, and he moved in for a killing blow. As he stepped in, pain shot up his back leg, followed by a feeling of intense dizziness. He swung his head around; a trap, the clever zizu must have set it while the dog had been distracting him.

The Draenei scrambled to her hooves, backing away quickly and once again grabbing her trusted weapon. Mudmask tried to steady his gaze on her, tried to channel his anger so that he might assume bear form, but the trap made his head foggy. Before he could think about just what the trap was doing to him, the hunter drew a bow and fired once more. The troll's world went black.


	3. The Predicament of Escape

There were drums beating steadily, loudly somewhere. They vibrated the world and made it impossible for Mudmask to open his eyes. There was hard earth beneath him, and whatever position he was lying in was causing quite the pain in his shoulder. With some degree of internal coaxing, he opened his eyes and stared blankly in front of him. He was in some sort of forest; the ashes of a campfire were still smoking nearby. Slowly it dawned on him that the woods were silent, the drumming he heard was confined to his head.

With hazy shock, he found himself in his troll body, arms and legs bound, tusks hopelessly tangled in a prison of net work. It was not uncommon for a druid to find himself returned to his original form in the event of being knocked out. Their connection to nature was often severed, and the body always seemed more… willing to shift to its natural state than it did to any of the druidic forms. Mudmask tried to shift to ease the cramping in his shoulder but the bindings were too tight. He considered trying to shift back to cat form if only to free himself, but he was so exhausted that even trying to focus on the change brought pain. Something snorted behind him, and he jolted, angling his head upwards to see just the hint of a large pachyderm within his narrow field of vision. An elkk… and then he remembered the Draenei.

The first thing he felt was embarrassment. He was never in the habit of fight before flight, most of the time when faced with confrontation, Mudmask was quick to work out the best means of escape. He had only be consequence been forced to take down Alliance members before when escape had not been an option, but he had never once ever imagined being caught by one. Why had she not killed him? Was he being taken back as a trophy, along with the head of Shok'ro that she had no doubt stolen from the scene? Would he be killed? Or kept as a slave? He couldn't allow it - the indignity of either notion was enough to send a sickly feeling to his stomach.

So the Draenei had transported him somewhere… the immediate question was where, and if there potentially was a Horde outpost nearby. How long had he been unconscious? Surely not long enough for him to be in Northern Kalmidor, and it wouldn't have been that likely for the lass to have dragged him so far through the Horde ridden provinces without getting caught.

The sound of sudden barking in the distance alerted Mudmask to the hunter's proximity. He focused on the sounds, zoning in on the direction they were coming from. He debated briefly on whether or not he should feign further unconsciousness, but quickly dismissed it; he and the Draenei needed to have a talk.

She was speaking in a language he didn't understand. At first he figured she had a companion with her, but he quickly realized she was talking at the dog. Three rabbits hung from her belt, no doubt taken down by her bow. He regarded her with a calm stare, and his stillness was such that at first the Draenei did not notice he was awake. When she did, the soft expression she had been using to speak to her dog gave way to a stern frown.

"I don' suppose ye can enlighten me as to how long I been sleepin'?" He flashed her what he hoped was a friendly grin.

Her brow furrowed, but it seemed less an act of non-understanding and more a poor reaction to the fact that Mudmask was talking at all. She turned away from him with a cold deliberateness, intent on tending to the rabbits.

She sat upon a stump with her back to him, at her feet rested the head of the dragon kin. Mudmask did his best to let his sigh out silently.

"Should be our first step to go acknowledgin' this an awkward situation, lass," Mudmask continued. "Best you free me, I'll be on my way and we can forget our experiment in teamwork back at dat cave." He attempted to gesture to the dragon kin trophy, but his stiff muscles reprimanded him sharply. He winced.

The Draenei, who had elected to stare at him coldly as he spoke, smirked at his discomfort. In an action that Mudmask could only describe as "gloating" she reached down and patted the severed head, smiling cheekily.

"So this is how it be," Mudmask replied flatly.

"No freedom for this troll. You exist with luck that _this_ is not you." She referred to the head. Poor use of Orcish grammar aside, at least his words had not been completely wasted. He was not surprised that she had an understanding of Orcish – neutral Draenei roamed freely, ones that now and then interacted with both factions. Rumor floated around that half-Orc Draenei existed, though Mudmask had personally never seen one. This Draenei however was far too well kept to be carving a life out on her own. The fact that he was presently entangled in rope and net was more than enough of an indicator that she belonged to the Alliance.

"Surely we can work something out," the Troll reasoned. "I imagine we are still a long way from your people, and I can be mighty conspicuous." He did his best to shrug, doing his best to hide the cramping pain that resulted.

"I am one strong hunter of my people. Devine at not being seen."

"I would hope you like a challenge, then." Mudmask wondered if his energy had recovered enough to force a shift into his bear form. At the risk of making a fool of himself, he decided to try. Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs to bursting and began to push his form outward – larger and larger, focusing on turning Troll to bear. It hurt. Under normal circumstances shifting took little effort, and while there was pain, it was typically over with so quickly there was no reason to think of it. The attempt Mudmask was currently undertaking was slower, labored, and encumbered by not only his injuries but his bindings. The rope around his hands dug into his skin as grey fur began to sprout forth from it. He had no way of telling how any of this looked, but the Draenei very quickly stood up and reached for her bow. While she reserved drawing an arrow for the time being, the Troll could tell that she was on guard should he succeed. For good measure, he gave a short, throaty huff, hoping that it might add to the intimidation.

His size had doubled by the time the confines of the net began causing a more serious discomfort. His tusks, which had been protruding from the net since his awakening prevented him from thrashing his head in any direction. It was becoming increasingly clear that perhaps Mudmask had misjudged his confidence in shifting from this position. This suspicion was further confirmed by the Draenei relaxing her posture, slightly. No longer tensely poised to arm her weapon, at least she continued to watch him with an uneasy gaze.

Mudmask stared back at her. His breathing was heavy, and with each exhale he snorted, baring his teeth. If he wasn't able to free himself, at the very least he would show her how serious he was about disrupting her plans. Though he had certainly managed to expand in size, Mudmask could feel he was nowhere near close to finishing the transformation. Accrodinly he had no idea how he must have looked to the Draenei, but he hoped the whole display had at least some of it's intended effect.

"A challenge," he repeated, his voice low and gravely due to his half transformed vocal chords. "Every step of the way."

Whether unsettled or skeptical, the Draenei turned away from him tersely. She sat back down on the stump heavily, withdrew a knife from her belt, and in one smooth motion sliced the belly of one of the rabbits. She was clearly done entertaining conversation between the two of them.

In the interest of relieving the pressure of his bindings, he let his focus wander and deflate back to his Troll form. He would need much more energy if he was to complete a transformation into anything. That considered, along with the Draenei's stubborn resolve to ignore him, Mudmask gave into his fatigue, and allowed himself to sleep.

The troll awoke to a symphony of noises. Insects, toads, owls – all indicators of moonrise. Mudmask didn't need to open his eyes to confirm that night had fallen. The air he took in through his nostrils was damper, colder, and a light dew had settled on what he reckoned was every hair follicle on his body. He shivered slightly, and for a moment he once again found himself missing his homeland.

But where was the Draenei? Though he couldn't move his head, he faintly heard amongst the clatter of night life the intermixed breaths of the hunter, the elkk, and the dog – all sleeping.

His body was still sore, but the rest he had was not a waste. He weighed his options – his travel form, that of a small spotted cat, was by far the smallest, and would lend well to slipping the bindings. But his tusks were another matter. Entangled in the net, his best chance was to work himself free with his hands. He doubted his ability to change twice in such rapid succession – but perhaps if he could induce a half-change like he accomplished this his bear form earlier, than perhaps he could at least free his hands. He took a few breaths to center himself, and willed himself towards the form of the spotted cat. His skin, covered in short, fine blue fur, melted into tawny gold, riddled with spots. As his wrists became smaller and more accommodating of paws, he found he was able to slip from the rope without much strain.

At this point, letting the change release felt like a sigh of relief for the Troll. He surmised that it was because this was how his body was supposed to be, and that naturally it would want to resume the "normality" of his given species. Of course, when it came to returning from cat or bear form, with it also came a dulling of the senses, and a feeling of weakness. Mudmask couldn't recall the last time he had resumed Troll form up until this whole fiasco; he had been scouting the dragonkin camp for days prior and certainly had no reason to live as anything other than a cat.

By comparison, the strength of his Troll form (or lack thereof) frustrated him. Considering his predicament, Mudmask decided that now was not the time to critique his physique. His tusks, however, his "gift" from the spirits, were exactly what were giving him the most amount of trouble. Perhaps it was the Draenei's doing, or simply the hazards of being dragged behind an elkk, but the net had looped itself several times over each of his tusks, making the effort to disentangle himself somewhat of a puzzle. A quick survey of his belt alerted him to the fact that the blasted Draenei had liberated him of his knife. Of course she had. So it was with determined silence that Mudmask had to make sense of the tangle of net before him. It took longer than he wanted.

Night had settled in deeply before his frustrated fingers finally pulled the last loop over his right tusk. In between solving the puzzle Mudmask had managed to use the sharp point of his tusks to fray the fibers of the rope, allowing him to pull them apart at the weakest points. He fought back the continual urges to cuss, and once he was free…

The grandeur of being able to stretch overtook him. His long limbs extended from his body almost as though he had no say in the matter. Several joints popped in the process, and to Mudmask, this was glorious. From this vantage point, the cool air was revitalizing, even his Troll body could appreciate that.

His preoccupation with freedom clashed with any caution he should have exercised. By the time he thought to look at the sleeping Draenei, he realized she was no longer there. Both she and the dog were absent, as the elkk stood resting carelessly.

Mudmask looked about him quickly, not wanting to appear too alarmed should the Draenei be watching. He crouched down to give the impression that he could shift at any time, though in reality he knew that it would be a least a few minutes before he could induce a change again.

If she was watching him, she could shoot him. The thought sent electricity through him. He hated feeling so exposed. On the other hand, if she entertained the notion that he was indeed a danger to her, then perhaps she was merely hiding. Either way gave him no reason to stick around.

Save for, of course, the head of Shok'ro. Still in its original place by the stump, it was now concealed in a bag. Mudmask crept over to it, stole a quick peek inside to make sure it was in fact his prize, and then made a straight sprint for the trees. The Draenei may have been a great hunter, but Mudmask was in tune with trees to a point, provided he could just make it into an animal form. Flying was out of the question with a heavy thing like the head to carry, and his travel form lacked any form of defense. Cat was the obvious choice; he just needed to stop feeling so woozy. Certainly there had to be poison still working its way out of his system from the hunter's arrows. He wished his raptor mount was with him, instead of stabled at some inn in Dustwallow, and clearly not needed for his mission.

The Troll was just about to dive into the deeper shadows of the trees when the arrow appeared in the trunk before him. He whirled around to the direction it came from, but saw nothing. Despite the briefness in which he scanned for his attacker, it was enough time for the mastiff to spring from the opposite direction. Mudmask turned just in time to see the large dog lunge at him. Though he had no time to dodge, he threw up his hands and managed to grab the dog, using its momentum to throw it off to one side. Knowing his recovery time was brief, Mudmask propelled himself to the safety of the trees. He couldn't see the arrows that pocked the lumber around him, but he heard them. While the Draenei didn't seem to have the most accurate shot, it was her speed that was to be marveled at.

He could hear the dog behind him. To his surprise, there was no snarling, or barking, just an eerie silence that emanated from the animal at it sped after him through the growth. Mudmask desperately needed to change, but he needed time to do it. The dog was gaining ground much faster than he would have liked. Turning around to face the assailant, Mudmask called upon his casting power – something that he vastly underutilized and was consequently rusty at.

As he conjured, the dog barreled into him, knocking him off his feet. Mudmask had to fight the urge to physically defend himself and instead focus on his spell. It was during this action that the mastiff took the opportunity to rush the fallen Troll and to sink its teeth into his shoulder. Mudmask cried out, almost losing the spell, but he held it.

Suddenly, a mass of writhing roots erupted from the ground, snaking out from beneath the dog. Now it was the dog's time to yelp as that wrapped around its legs, effectively entwining it to the ground.

Mudmask rolled to his hands and knees, it was time to shift and get out. He drew in a breath, and promptly gasped it out as an arrow pierced him below his ribs. The Draenei burst through the foliage, and though Mudmask's reaction was to carry through the change and pounce her, he found horrifyingly that he couldn't move. His muscles locked in place, he could barely feel anything.

"I let you leave, almost. But you took what is mine." The Draenei picked up the bag with the head, which had dropped to the ground when the dog attacked. She added something in her own language, which Mudmask did not bother trying to decipher. He could tell already that whatever impairment her arrow had enacted upon him, it was temporary. Already there was a tingling feeling making its way back into his fingers. "I should know better than

The dog had not stopped barking since becoming caught in his entanglement spell. Concerned, the Draenei turned to the animal and tried to hush it. Mudmask's hands could finally feel again. Though the rest of his limbs remained locked in place, he could feel his hands pressing into the soil. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Silently, three tiny mushrooms sprouted at the feet of the Draenei. The effort of this alone drained a fair amount of his energy, but more and more feeling was returning to his body. His bones creaked, anxious to be free of the stun.

Just as the hunter turned back to attend to her captive, Mudsmask detonated the mushrooms. The effect was not as strong as it could have been compared to other, more practiced druids, but it managed to knock the Draenei off her feet, allowing Mudmask the time to wrench himself free of the ground and spring at her.

Knowing he only had another minute or so before the roots would relinquish their hold on the dog, Mudmask pinned the Draenei to the ground and drew his knife, holding it to her throat. He brutishly thrust his tusks forward, so that they were on either side over her face, and she winced.

"Your arrogance gets de best of you, talbuk, but what are you without ya bow? Widout ya beast?" He kept his tusks framing her face, but shifted his eyes towards the dog. "Ya nothing but a scared zizu faaaar away from home." The hunter was trembling at this point, he could feel her heart pounding, almost as if it occupied her entire body, and despite the fact that Mudmask himself was quite nervous, he found himself enjoying her fear.

"It's easy ta be brave when ya standin' back from de fightin'," He let his voice lower and sink further into his accent – judgments be damned. "But when da violence is right at ya door, in ya eyes and ya nose, and ye taste it, I reckon ya don' much like it at all, do ya, lass?" He could tell that the Draenei wanted to look away from him, whether she understood him or not, it was taking all that she had to act tough and meet his eye. "Or maybe, this is what ya wanted ta happen all along…" Mudmask grinned, pressing the dagger slightly harder to her throat. "You missed ya chance to kill me, lass. Will I extend you de favor for ya lack of conviction?"

The Draenei held her breath, as if waiting for the knife to finally pierce her skin. Mudmask could hear the vines around the dog start to crackle as the magical hold on them loosened. He did not break eye contact with the girl, however. Instead, he snarled, raising the knife. The hunter flinched, shutting her eyes tight.

In one fluid motion, Mudmask sheathed his dagger, took in a breath, and leapt from his hold, gracefully embracing his feline form once more. The Draenei opened her eyes just in time to see the large cat scoop up the bag that held the head, and bound off through the trees. Her heart was still pounding as the vines released her companion, and though the dog made to run after the druid, the hunter called it back to her. That was enough flirting with danger for the day.


	4. A Reintroduction to Sand

Mudmask needed to go home. Swamps and forests were no place for a Troll from Durotar. He missed the sun, and lack of rain. He missed the bonfires on the shore, the busy hum of Orgrimmar, and that he decided was the first place he would visit once he got back to the peninsula. The arrow wound in his side had nagged at him at first, but by the end of the week his body's natural regenerative properties had soothed the aches he had acquired in the last few days. By the time he actually reached the city, he appeared deceptively unscathed.

Having grown up among Orcs, Mudmask didn't look into the difference between them and Trolls too deeply. They comprised the bulk of the Horde, and many of those housed in Orgrimmar were perfectly acceptable company. As though to highlight the contrasts between the two of them, Lopside seemed to make a habit of complaining about the Orcs. Their behavior, their food, their language, anything was grounds for some sort of teasing. Granted, Lopside knew how to conduct himself properly whenever he found himself in their presence, but he would never shy away from an opportunity to make an Orc look foolish. For this reason, Mudmask avoided traveling to Orgrimmar with Lopside whenever he could.

The dry heat, the dust in the air, the smell of the sheer grit of the place, Mudmask took it all in with appreciation. He breathed in, no doubt inhaling dirt in the process, but he didn't mind. Next to Sen'Jin Villiage, this was home. He patted his raptor, Fleabit, assuring him a long rest from hauling the spoils from the Troll's explorations. Aside from his mission's bounty, Mudmask had picked up a number of trinkets, precious stones, and even a looted weapon or two. By far most of his acquisitions were taken up by hides. He had learned to skin beasts from an early age – it was a skill picked up from the many hunters that had passed through his village, seeking council from Vol'Jin. For all his discoveries, if his income wasn't dictated by missions, it certainly was by the selling of hides.

His return to Orgrimmar meant a return to carrying out his interactions as a Troll. While it was not unheard of for Druids to wander about the city in cat or bear form, it was for the most part not a popular way to conduct oneself. Mudmask had spoken to few people outside of his encounter with the Draenei a week prior, and was ashamed to find himself feeling the slightest anxiety over holding a proper conversation with anyone.

He had sent post to Runthak a few days before his arrival to set up a meeting to exchange Shok'ro's head. Why Runthak had wanted the dragonlord dead, Mudmask had no interest in asking. This was typical of most of his work, though there were instances when his business partners entrusted him with more information than he cared to know. He was due to meet in the Cleft of Shadow, and opted to stroll through the Drag a bit first, if only to pass by the orphanage in which he spent much of his childhood.

"Muds!" A small voice cut through the din of the city. The Troll turned to see a goblin dart through the crowd towards him.

"Muds!" She called again, waving. "Jeese, ya drop off Azeroth or somethin'?" He grinned at the sight of her.

What Sputnik Corkhammer lacked in size she made up for in how loud she was. Mudmask had the pleasure of meeting her on an ammunitions assignment a few years back. Having been given nothing but her name on a slip of paper with which to locate her, Mudmask had mispronounced her name initially due to the nature of the Zandali language. Consequently, "Spoot" had become her nickname ever since.

"Spoot, mah sistra!" Mudmask opened his arms in greeting.

"Where ya been all my life, my tall blue brotha?" She lowered her voice, stringing her syllables together in a parody of Mudmask's own accent. He chuckled at the attempt and squatted down. Despite the four foot difference between them, the two managed a warm embrace. Since their first assignment together, the two had turned to each other countless times for assistance on odd jobs. Where Mudmask lacked a casting specialty, Spoot more than compensated with her shamanic powers. Considering she was an engineer as well, Mudmask was the first Troll she'd call to share her new creations with. The exploding sheep had been a particular favorite of theirs to play around with, especially when it came to stumbling upon Alliance camps.

"I just be headin' to settle a job with ma employa," Mudmask stood himself back up, gesturing to his cargo as he addressed his comrade. "I expect ta find ya hangin' about the Valley when I be done?"

"I could always do with some stout from the Broken Tusk," Spoot smiled. "Besides, I recall you owe me a flask from last time…"

The troll responded with a soft sigh and a raise of his brow. "You be keepin' bettah track of my debts than I do."

"Or you're just gullible," She replied cheekily. "Either way, you just agreed to buy me a drink, big guy." She gave a perky innocent dip of her head and made her way back into the crowd. "See ya there!"

Mudmask waved her off and turned back to his raptor. "All right mon, let's get this burden off 'o our backs."

The descent into the Cleft always left Mudmask feeling uneasy. He inherently despised going underground, if only because it meant a lack of open space from which to escape. Even in safe territory, being underground put the Troll on edge. Undercity inspired little else than anxiety and unease, particularly in light of the fact that Mudmask fostered a fair amount of distrust towards the Undead.

The Cleft of Shadow was far from comparable to that pit of a city, however. It was dark though, and much cooler than the arid heat of Orgimmar's streets. A pungent smell filled the Troll's nose. It was the potpourri of herbs and spices that came with the manufacturing of potions, and while kingsblood was a pleasant enough smell on its own, the chemistry behind combining numerous agents always smelled sour to Mudmask. The Cleft was home to conjurers and alchemists, and more than a few underhanded dealings; the fact that Runthak had requested to reconvene there only confirmed to the Troll that mayhaps he had just played a part in something the Warchief was not privy to.

"I see you are still in one piece!" The Orc greeted him heartily. "Come, druid, let me see the result of your work."

Runthak ushered Mudmask into a quiet tent located on the upper level of the cavern. Leaving Fleabit outside, Mudmask unclipped the bag containing Shok'ro's head and held it out to its new owner. The Orc gave it the briefest of glances before quickly resealing the bag.

"Have any trouble, did ya?" For attempting to speak quietly, Runthak still carried a bombastic quality to his voice that made Mudmask feel like he was being too loud. His feeling of unease had not diminished since his arrival, if anything the shifty nature of the meeting only seemed to underline it. It was a combination of this feeling as well as his own embarrassment over the incident that led Mudmask to omit his run in with the Draenei.

"None at'all," The Troll waved dismissively. "Dees dragonkin be cumbersome fellas, not bright in da least."

"Splendid, lad. A job well done." Runthak withdrew from his vest a pouch of coins, plopping it down on the table. "I trust that should a follow up mission be appropriate we can contact you again?"

Mudmask scooped his payment into his hand. "If ya be payin' me so generously I be thinkin' dat just fine." He gave a terse grin and made to exit the tent. It was no lie, the pay was good, whether it came from underhanded dealings or otherwise. Long ago, Mudmask had adopted a "gold is gold" policy, and reserved his rejections for only the riskiest of transactions. They would have to send them into the heart of Stormwind before Mudmask would decline a chance to get paid.

"Be keeping yer schedule open, lad. This opportunity may come sooner than you think." Again, his voice seemed all too audible in the quiet of the mages quarter.

Without turning around, he responded, "Don't ya worry, ya know how ta reach me."  
* * *

Back into the warmth, and into the Broken Tusk, Mudmask shook off the remnants of the underground and sank himself into a flask of rum. Spoot sat across the table, chipper as always, and well into a buzz from her third pint of ale. The Troll had some catching up to do.

"Muds, I tells ya I can drink your ass under the table!" The Goblin slammed her empty flagon down, deep red eyes sparkling behind her tangled mess of brown hair. She had never been in the habit of keeping it well groomed, more often than not it was parted unevenly to one side and the part that wasn't obscuring her face was swept up in a careless ponytail. Her skin was pale by goblin standards, but her eyes were dark in a way that always made her look sleepy, even when she was eliciting a competition.

"Don kid me, girl, ya the size of a gnome, and ev'rybodeh knowin' de squeakahs can't hold dere liqua." He spoke into his glass, but his eyes met hers in challenge.

"Morag!" Spoot called to the bartender, her voice made shriller under the influence of her beverages. "I need four pints of dwarven ova hear, chop chop!" Mudsmask snorted a laugh, good old goblin etiquette.

"So where were they runnin' ya this time?" Spoot encircled the newly delivered spirits with her hands possessively.

Mudmask took a long pull from his glass before answering. "Dustwallow. Dragonkin. You ken imagine how pleased I was to be receivin' the request."

"Baaah, I know some guys over there. It's not so bad. You're just a home boy," She paused, regarding her drink. "Who's scared of spiders."

"Da spidahs over dere be three times ya size." Mudmask countered.

"Yeah? So what? Zap 'em!" She leaned in, he smile goofily holding hands with her alcohol tolerance. "Besides, no one likes a stick 'a dynamite thrown their way."

"Spoot, ya as subtle as a naked orc in a bath house." The two laughed and finished their drinks.

A heavy haze of drunk had glossed over them before Mudmask conducted his confession. The day had melded away into the diminishing heat of twilight. The streets of Orgrimmar still bustled with activity, but it was an hour devoted to students learning from their mentors and businesses entertaining their last bartering customers for the day. Despite the inn being fairly unpopulated, he sunk his voice down low and leaned towards his companion.

"I'm afraid I be loosin' mah touch, sistra." He looked away, checking over his shoulder. "An Ally almost got de best of ol' Muds."

The Goblins eyes narrowed. "While you were in Dustwallow? Goodness, boy, what did you do?"

Mudmask sat back, slumping against the chair and giving out a sigh. "Iii don know, Spoot. The zizu was a huntah, should ha had no problem, but de damn girl was so fast. Hit me wit a poison… dragged me all through naraka before I was able to get away."

"Why on earth would she capture you? Why not just kill you?"

"Who know why de Outland Goats do what dey do? I expect I was to be made a fool of back on dey islands." Mudmask took no pride in admitting his detour from success, but it was nice to be able to tell someone, if only because it bothered him so. Why _would_ she go to the effort to ensnare him? And why was she hunting the same target in the first place? Mudmask's commitment to not get involved more than he had to with his assignments all but insured he'd never have the answers, much less revenge.

It was with a concentrated effort that he decided to forego the drunken sense of trust he felt and omit details of his escape – how he had pinned the Draenei beneath him, how he had acted as the monster that she expected him to be. The memories of it both enthralled him and caused a knot to take up residence in his stomach.

"It's fishy, Muds. Ain't no doubt about that. I'd be careful who I take my ordersh from here… on out." Spoot finished her slurred warning with a hiccup.

Mudmask allowed himself a chuckle and waved in the air, dismissing her caution and his feelings. "It takes a lot ta kill me, lady." And that indeed was no secret.

"Takes a lot to convince some trolls they ain't immortal." Spoot laid her hands flat upon the table, regarding them with hazy eyes. After a long pause she stated "Sir, I do believe I am drunk."

"Ya coulda fooled me, girl." Mudmask shook his head and began to stand up, his bones cracked after having been rooted to the chair for so long. "All fo the bettah, I best be on mah way."

Spoot did not move to follow right away; the Troll suspected it was because her world was spinning. "Sstill gonna try to make it down to Sen'Jin tonight?" She squinted at him.

"Dat's de intention. Ya gonna make it out dat chair?"

She regarded him with a smirk. "I'm workin' on it. 'Sides, I'm crashin' in the big city tonight anyways."

"Just be sure you don crash _into_ anyone in da big city tonight, eh? Ya liable to get stepped on easy enough as it is."

"Cute." She said flatly with a cock of her head. Raising up her hands she made a shooing motion. "Off with ya, then! Important troll with important places to be!"

"Ya feel free to stop down tomorrah if ye feel." Mudmask gave a short bow, and exited the inn, ignoring Spoot's snorts of laughter as he made a less than graceful stumble down the stairs.


	5. A Welcome Home

The streets had quieted down considerably, and above the awnings and jagged spires Mudmask could make out the beginning twinkles of stars. He was happy to see them, and happy at the notion of returning to the shores of his people, as meek a settlement as it may have been.

All the more happier he was when he mounted Fleabit and shot out beneath the Orgrimmar gates and into the open air, sand still warm from the day's sun. The air however, was dry and cool, a gentle breeze wafting in from the sea, and though Mudmask was still very much inebriated, he still found himself relishing the experience. He decided to take the long way south, around the gorge, for the sake of keeping the stars as traveling companions. This was a night to be beneath them.

The air smelled different out in the open than it did in Orgrimmar. There was no heavy traffic to kick up the dirt, no warriors perspiring, no punches being thrown and accordingly no blood to be smelt. Absent too were the smells of coarse breads and strong cheeses, and meats sliced fresh from the bone. But to replace it – ah, the slight salt from the sea, and the sweet tang of the herbs that dared grow in such dry conditions. The freshness alone was enough a reason to avoid the canyon. There dwelled the harpies, and despite their more humanoid appearance, to Mudmask traveling through there always brought the stink of birds.

By the time he could see the silhouette of Sen'Jin, his drunk had waned into a buzz humming pleasantly in his ears. The huts were illuminated, by what looked to be the flicker of a large fire offshore. Considering the brightness of the firelight, he wondered if perhaps there was a celebration to be had on the Echo Isles. For a moment, he felt a pang of regret for being away for so long. Who would be there? How many familiar faces? How many new?

Indeed, his approach to the village left him amidst his own company, and the bonfires shone brightly on the islands across the narrow strip of sea. He dismounted Fleabit, knowing the raptor to not have a care for water, and stepped forward into the channel. He let his energy flow and circulate inside of him, until his body melded into the form of a hunched, grey beast with broad front flippers. His tusks were the only trollish thing about his swimming form, and considering he only used it for the rare occasion of crossing water ways, it was always the most foreign feeling to him. His head was almost like that of a mastiff, save for the complete lack of fur. His back flippers were short, making him absolutely useless on land, but in water, he could fly. It did not take him long to reach the largest of the islands where the festivities were running wild.

He changed back down shore and away from the noise, not wanting to make a scene of his return. A large fire had been erected in the center of the settlement, its glow bouncing off the fabric of the wooden structures they called houses and places of meditation. Perhaps he could quickly find a friendly face and sneak in beside them, nonchalantly. His anxiety quickly turned to the notion of what he would say to his family and companions, and for the time he was glad that his run-in with Spoot had warmed him up to the practice of conversation.

So preoccupied with his thoughts was he, that he didn't hear the soft footfalls behind him, and had no way of being prepared for the arms that wrapped around his neck and pushed a knife to his throat. Then again, with his brother being the skilled rogue that he was, Mudmask did not have much of a chance to begin with.

"Ya be gottin' some hefty draks commin' back 'ere." Lopside's low voice whispered in his ear.

In an act of pure reaction, Mudmask grasped the arms that held him and bent forward, hurling his assailant to the ground in front of him. Lopside was laughing before he hit the ground, shining black hair tossed out of its braid, he was waving his weapon and pointing it at the Druid, displaying clearly that the "knife" was simply a piece of driftwood.

Attempting to conceal his embarrassment, Mudmask looked down at his brother with controlled disdain. "It is nice to be home, bruddah."

"And what a surprise it is!" The younger troll gracefully rolled himself to his feet. "Why ya not be sendin' word of ya return? And look at ya, outta ya fur for de occasion and ev'ryting!"

Mudmask let out a silent sigh at the dig towards his feline form. "I was jus tryin' to spare ye the trouble of givin' me such a warm welcome. Thank ye fo' findin' de time to do it regardless."

"Anyting for me bruddah. S'been a long time, ye know?" Lopside's tusks were decidedly smaller than Mudmask's, but they jutted from his mouth in such a way that it only made his cheeky smiles cheekier. His name had come from the fact that one tusk had grown in faster than the other, and even though they had evened out during his adolescence, the name was very much his. "And what ya be doing all dis long while?" He fell in step with his adopted sibling as they approached village. Mudmask could now hear the clear whoops and hollers of voices and the thrumming of board hide drums. He could feel the heat of the fire long before he could measure its impressive height.

"What be de occasion?" He asked, ignoring Lopside's question.

"We brought de flames of Durotar to de Alliance today. Dey had been setting up an encampment down shore of Sen'Jin, tryin' to hide in de hills, ye see. Now dey as much a part of de hills as de sand." Lopside beamed with a pride that told Mudmask that he played some integral part in the whole affair. He could not help but smile to know that the Darkspear were still bringing the might of the Horde down upon the Alliance.

"And did ye use those flames to light dis fire?" They stood amidst the dancing and chanting now, Mudmask's heart beat with the drums, alive with the pride of his people.

"We did, bruddah. We did." And for a moment, Mudmask left behind the last three months, the irritation at his brother, the encounter with the Draenei. He was home, the fires burned high, and when Lopside took his hand to drag him into the dance, he followed as though it were his own idea.

Joining the Horde had meant a lot of things for the trolls. Sacrifices were expressly forbidden, particularly by their current Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream. Mudmask, having been raised amongst the Orcs for much of his youth, did not find himself with the Trolls until well after such practices were outlawed, but the Darkspear still made do with what they had, and this far south from Orgrimmar, there were few who would venture down to prevent the slaughter of wild boars. Mudmask watched and then participated as the heart was cut from one such boar, and passed around so that the Trolls could squeeze the blood down upon their faces, creating deep red rivers across their cheeks.

They danced, wildly, stomping their feet into the soft sands of the islands. Males and females alike wore animal hide vests, grass skirts, and little else, their bodies coated with clay and sand. They were known to become lost in their celebrations – lost to the dancing, lost to the wilds inside them.

There were acknowledgements of Mudmask's return, but few that lasted beyond a nod of recognition before their eyes abandoned themselves back to the communal trance they were all in. It was not uncommon for members of the tribe to engage in public displays of mating, and while many Troll couples were pre-established, celebrations like this were also an occasion for sharing as much as they were an opportunity for new relationships to form. It was during such activities that Mudmask found a pair of eyes he knew very well.

Hyena was a female much closer to Lopside's age, if not slightly younger. Mudmask had met her in his mid-twenties, while she had just entered adulthood. A few years prior the two had made a habit of sharing a bed, albeit it was a casual arrangement. Relations ended as her occupation as a hunter drew her more frequently out of the village, and soon after Mudmask had found more comfort in his feline form than he did as a Troll. There was never a defined parting of ways, the two simply drifted apart naturally.

In the heat of the fire, the girl gave him a smile. Her tusks were large for her gender, but no where near as big as even the least blessed of the males. They curved up and away from the corners of her mouth, two ivory scythes. She had taken to bleaching her once vibrantly red hair, so that now it was even whiter than Mudmask's graying locks. He had to look twice to make sure it was her, but the red of her eyes was always a particularly violet shade, and once he saw that, he knew.

The drums were continuing their heavy sigil as the two met amidst the waves of sweating bodies. She held up a goatskin, Mudmask took it and swallowed an impressive gulp of the honey wine that resided within, and then held the spout to Hyena's lips as she too took a long draw.

Mudmask placed his hands upon her hips, and she in turned grabbed his tusks with each one of her hands, assisting him in lifting her up. They kissed, her hands still clutching his tusks, and he could taste the honey wine that had resided in the goatskin. It was not a typical Darkspear beverage, no doubt imported from the Eastern city of Silvermoon and cheap in Kalimdor due to it being a "blood elf drink", but as usual the Trolls made do with what they had.


	6. A Hangover

Geeky Side Note: Today (10/24) marks the one year anniversary of my starting up a WoW account. It is by circumstance also Muds' birthday. Nur hur.

Mudmask was not the only Troll on Echo Island that day to wake up naked and caked in sand on the shores that day. Embers from the fire still held their glow, but the towers of flame were long gone. The morning sun had dried the clay and mud that had been smeared upon Mudmask's blue skin, and it fell off in mosaic flecks, leaving him feeling much like a lizard waking up to the heat of the day. Around him, many other Trolls were also discovering the waking world once more, and others still lied curled within the tendrils of their dreaming. The order of his pounding headache was at the forefront of Mudmask's attention.

He was not sure if his night had ended with Hyena by his side, but she was no where to be found now, and this did not concern him. With a groan, he lugged himself to his feet, tusks feeling suddenly too heavy for his head, which was still echoing the pounding of the drums from the night before.

Across the shore he could see the distant outlines of those who had returned to the edge of the peninsula. He too had intention of returning, but his hangover dictated that it would be by boat, he was in no condition for shape shifting. He turned his back to the shore and pressed inward towards the center of the isle, finding a small pond to sooth the dryness of his tongue, which felt, he surmised, much like the flaking clay on his skin looked. He washed his face, cleansing it of the boar's blood, and looked down at his reflection in the water.

It had been a long time since he last looked at himself; longer still since he had last seen himself without his typical face paint. He could see the wrinkles on his forehead, and noticed a small chip on the underside of his right tusk that he could not remember the cause thereof.

Mudmask knew he needed nights like the last one; ones that reminded him of who he was in the grand scheme of things. He had years to learn just how to be a Troll, but it didn't stop him from feeling apart from it all, on occasion. Even his accent wasn't as strong as the others, and Orcish would always be his first language, as opposed to Zandali. Some days it bothered him more than others, but only because he let it. Like last night, the other Darkspear had always welcomed him readily. Mama Oda herself had cared for him just as deeply as she did her natural born son, and for that, Mudmask was grateful, bless her departed soul.

He ran his thumb along the underside of his chipped tusk, picking lightly at the uneven surface. And now that bothered him too.

"Bah." He uttered, leaving his reflection behind in search for his clothes.

He didn't find his clothes. But he did find some old druidic robes that a trainer was willing to lend him. It was oddly nostalgic, wearing the same colors he did when he first began his journey into the ways of nature. He'd have to wait till he returned to Orgrimmar in order to buy any decent replacements, but at least had had left his armor packed with Fleabit, who he had hitched safely in Sen'Jin Village.

"Let ya hair out dem braids and ya be lookin' like a youngsta again in no time, mon." Lopside appeared at the top of the ramp leading down to the training grounds, a small swath of cloth the only thing separating him from nudity.

"Like you be lookin' like ya adolescence." Mudmask walked up to meet him. "Is that a grey hair I see?"

Lopside gathered his hair back into a pony tail, and turned a shoulder to his brother. "Don ya be lookin' at mah hair, it as ebony as it evah was!" He struck a girlish pose, and Mudmask laughed.

"You'll get there one day, jus you wait." The two of them paused atop the ramp and leaned over the railing, looking out onto the sea.

"Quite a welcome back, eh?" Lopside grinned lazily, eyes remaining on the horizon.

"Not what I been expectin', but quite a suitable reception, nonetheless." He yawned, squinting his eyes at the sharp twang of pain in his brain that resulted. "Ah tell ya what though, ya don't get drunk like dat lest you're in Durotar."

"Ain't no lyin' to de Loa about dat, mon." He patted Mudmask on the back a little too hard. "Come, let's be findin' some food fo our stomachs."

Mudmask couldn't argue with that.


	7. Back Ta Haunt Ya

With a belly full of roasted boar ribs and his headache slowly waning, Mudmask finally made it back to Sen'Jin Village. The sun's rays warmed him to his bones, and made it easy to forget that places like Dustwallow even existed.

The hut that had once belonged to Mama Oda now belonged to Lopside. Its thin leather walls provided welcome shade as Mudmask nursed the rest of his hangover with a goat skin of spring water. It was a modest structure, as many of the huts were. On pleasant days the walls could be rolled up to let the wind pass through, but the brothers felt content enough to hide away for a time. Festivities like the night prior did not mean that work ceased in Sen'Jin, but it did mean it slowed a fair amount. But until Mudmask received an opportunity for more work, he did not feel any pressing need to do anything productive – his last mission had paid quite well, after all. Lopside neglected to announce if he had any matters to attend to, but regardless of whether or not he did, the fact that he had been laying sprawled out asleep for a few hours announced that he had all intention of doing nothing.

Mudmask was happy for the respite. Last night had knocked him out, but that was merely the final punctuation on three months of exhaustion. Being away from home was in itself draining without messing with spiders, and crocolisks, and dragonkin and Alliance. As his brother kept him company in silence, the Druid had slipped in and out of sleep, dreaming dreams he wouldn't remember. The last time he woke up it was because someone had entered the tent.

"Figgas I would find you here." She seemed so small, silently sliding past the door flap and crawling into the dim world of the hut. Lopside did not stir, and while it was not the largest of dwellings, she was able to step past him and create a spot for herself beside Mudmask. "Ah half expected ya to still be in da sands where ah left ye."

Mudmask gave a gentle smile and raised a hand, resting it lightly on the underside of her jaw. "Seems like ya made it out much more gracefully than I did."

Her smirk was slight. Hyaena had a tendency to contain most outward expressions of emotion. Her training as a hunter only seemed to enunciate her already logic based way of thinking, but those who knew her well enough knew she had a sense a humor, albeit a dry one.

"Seems like ah been makin' it out of de last t'ree months bettah dan you did." Her smirk remained as she poked gently at the muscles of his arm. "Ya be lookin' skinny, ol man."

"Been a lotta long nights, youngin'." He placed his hand over hers where it rested on his shoulder. The action was so casual, so natural, it was almost unremarkable. But while they would never think to speak it aloud, the two appreciated the contact.

Not wishing to relive his encounter with the Draenai once more, he diverted, "Ya been back long?"

"De last two weeks. Seem like ah was just in time fo' all dis Alliance hoo-ah. Dis attack was a long time comin'. Dey tink dey have de South Barrens under dey wraps and den dey get cocky so dey tink 'oh, we gon spread to Durotar, dat wil be eeeeeeeasy!' De vekking murka don have mo draks den dey have brains."

"Hey hey hey!" The voice was so sudden it made both trolls jump. Lopside, his back still to them was waving his arms as though he was surrounded by flies. "Ya don be commin' in he'a talkin' so loud." He rolled over, regarding them groggily. He squinted at them, trying to make sense of just who had disturbed him, and when the recognition finally shone in his eyes, he glared, sinking back down. "And don' ya be rubbin' yaselves togetha in mah tent! Troll be tryin' to sleep all up in he'a!" Throwing himself back into what he approximated was a comfortable sleeping position, he immediately fell silent.

Mudmask and Hyena exchanged easy glances. "Ah suppose ah should be goin'," she said, bringing herself into a low crouch.

"I reckon ah may join you."

The two exited the tent as silently as they could. Mudmask was mildly surprised to find that the sun was already sinking below the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant orange that somehow made even the rusty sands of Durotar look de-saturated and dull.

"I must really be losin' my touch to be knocked out dis long by Blood Elf liqua." Mudmask rubbed the back of his neck idly, half expecting his head to still be spinning.

"Well ah have me some darkmoon reserve if ya need ta get back in de …practice of tings." She gave him a subtle grin.

"If ya be implyin' dat I'm outta practice in mo' than jus drinkin'…" The troll began.

"Thrall's balls you are hard ta find, Muds!" A loud voice from a small body, Mudmask turned to see the diminutive companion he left in Orgrimmar waving at him from T'all Djinn's hut. It was a surprise to see a goblin in a troll village, the tents themselves served to make her seem even smaller.

"Spoot." Mudmask regarded her with a cooler greeting than he did back in the city. "Whatcha doin' here mah'lady?"

"I told ya I wasn't selling nothin'." She looked up at T'all indignantly and hopped down the stairs to join her friend.

"Muds. I don't know what ya did, but there's been a bit of an upset caused by yer trip to Dustwallow. Somethin' about what ya brought back causin' a ruckus. They're gonna be heading down here first thing in the morning to take ya in for questioning."

"Ruckus? What do ya mean ruckus?" He could tell Spoot was aiming to be discreet but it seemed like their voices were way too loud all the same. He crouched down so they could speak more softly. Spoot took the hint.

"I'm not sure. Something about a curse. I wasn't able to hear much until they herded everyone out of-"

"Dat puccha of course she would!" Mudmask hissed under his breath. A fool he was for thinking he could have so easily avoided repercussions from this whole mess.

"Runnin' inta da ladies out in de swamps are we?" Hyena smiled again, but this time it was to herself. "Sorry Ah implied you're outta practice."

Mudmask's concern did not permit him to fully appreciate Hyena's joke. "Ah need to get back to Orgrimmar."

"Why?" The younger troll countered. "They be comin' down ere in de mornin'. Might as well get a free ride from dis whole 'ting."

"Ah don want dem thinking dat ah had anymore to do with this than ah already do. Maybe if ah show up to account for what's happened dat'll lessen de blow that's awaitin' me."

There weren't a lot of objections to the notion that the sooner the issue was dealt with, the better. Mudmask had deliberately excluded his run in with the Draenei and in the eyes of the Horde that counted as lying. On its own, lying to a superior was a grievous offense, but more often than not it could be gotten away with. But to have something occur as a result of lying… Mudmask had seen Orcs with sawn off tusks who had committed lesser crimes.

The druid shook his head, and straightened up, glancing over towards Fleabit, who was dutifully waiting with the other mounts in the raptor pens. Both of them had needed the break, and Mudmask couldn't bring himself to even think about employing the Venomhide's services again so soon. He then looked down at Spoot. "Thank you for de warning, sistra."

"Muds. That hunter, was there anything else weird about her that you remember? Anything that would hint why she was down there after the same fella you were?"

"If there was it went straight ova mah head." He shrugged weakly, already feeling the fatigue his flight would bring him.

"I'll do as much investigating as I can. I got goblins all over the place, maybe some of my more neutrally inclined brethren can rustle up some knowledge."

"Ah 'preciate it. But don ya go gettin' yourself in trouble." His tone was friendly, but stern. He backed away and gave a nod to Hyena.

"Ah had a lovely time in yo company, m'laday."

"Bah! Don be so formal, you jus get dis sorted out an come back." She crossed her arms and smirked. "And dis lady bettah be tellin' me what's goin' on ere." She gestured to Spoot.

"Spoot'll fill ya in as best she can. If I'm still capable afta ah speak with mah employas, ah'd be happy to answer questions latah." He gave a deep bow to the two of them. Spoot saluted, Hyena gave an expectant nod.

Mudmask turned towards the city, taking in a deep breath. Pressing his feet into the sand, he shoved off, sprinting towards the horizon. Flying was always assumed best with a running start, and within a few bounds, he spread his arms, pushed the air from his lungs, and melted into his bat form, meeting the open air beneath his wings.


	8. An Admission of Guilt

Mudmask could be unnoticeable in his cat form, but it was nothing in compared to the silence that came with flying on leathery wings. The sun had set fast, but his already capable eyes were even more suited to the darkness. The form itself was ill-suited for fighting, but his speed more than made up for it, he reached Orgrimmar in a fraction of the time that it took him on his raptor.

The troll loved flying, but it was something that was still new to him, and as such it was metabolically expensive. Returning to troll form meant feeling weak and shaky, and it was always accompanied by an incredible hunger. He used it sparingly enough that even under the circumstances, his flight to Orgrimmar came with a feeling of exhilaration, but it was one that was immediately accompanied by his sense of dread. What had that Draenei done to that head? What did this dance with coincidence mean to the Horde? Was it coincidence at all?

There was no sound as Mudmask glided over the Orgrimmar gates, no disturbance as he dipped down into the Drag and soared into the Cleft of Shadow. It had been evacuated, save for a cluster of orcs tucked away in one of the crevices. They were having a meeting of sorts. Mudmask flew to the ceiling and affixed himself above the group, wanting desperately to know just what had happened before he faced his mistake.

"So that would imply the Alliance knows, then. Then what?" It was Runthak.

"Have I not made it clear that we cannot go ahead with a retaliation plan without knowing for sure who that troll ran into?" A second orc, bigger than Runthak replied.

"I knew we should have left tonight. This "in the morning" shit is for pansies. I say we apprehend him NOW." Contributed another, pounding his fist against the wall.

"We don't have the resources, and even if we did, it would call unnecessary attention to the situation at this hour. The less chance we have of the Warchief hearing about this, the more limbs we'll all have at the end of the day. And may I remind you, Runthak, that all of this could have been avoided had you grilled that spindly excuse for a soldier!" Bigger-that-Runthak's voice steadily raised until it was a shout. Mudmask resented being referred to as "spindly".

"I had no reason to believe he was lying, Grokton! Who in Azeroth lies to an orc?"

"No doubt many more than you'd know, Runthak." His tone fell back down.

"There is no use concerning ourselves until morning," the final orc spoke up. "If the troll doesn't know what he's done, we'll be able to capture him easily. If he knew about any of this, that will simply make things more… fun."

Mudmask decided he didn't want to make things fun in the least. He released his hold on the rocky surface of the ceiling and drifted a ways up the Cleft entrance, where he promptly resumed troll form. The force of it caused him to briefly collapse against the wall. Pushing himself back up, he did his best to ignore his shivering muscles and walk steadily towards the orcs. For the moment, his dread seemed to override his growling stomach.

"Ah hear there's been some troubles with mah delivery." The orcs were still bickering as he approached.

"Mudmask!" Runthak exclaimed, clearing any doubt that this was the very troll they had been discussing. There was a note of relief in Runthak's voice, as though Mudmask could solve all of his problems.

"Is that true? YOU are the troll that retrieved the head of Shok'ro?" Grokton turned towards him, straightening up to look taller. Even then, his head only came up to Mudmask's shoulders.

"Aye, that be me." He gave a respectful bow.

"And were you the one who removed Shok'ro's head from his body?"

"The mission… Became a bit more complicated at dat point." He made a point to maintain eye contact with Grokton, in an attempt to seem earnest.

"You wretch! I asked you if there had been complications! WHY WOULD YOU-" Runthak had stepped forward aggressively, but Grokton raised his hand.

"I believe what my compatriot is asking is why you would ignore a chance to share any… suspicious run-ins you may have encountered on your mission."

Mudmask sighed, reluctant to reveal his mistake. "Truth be told, commander, ah did not think it relevant. Aye, dere was a run in wit a lass - a draenei hutah, to be precise. But as I was able to secure the bounty all de same, ah did not think it an important detail of mah mission."

"So it WAS the Alliance then." The forth orc directed his sentence to the third passively.

"And are you aware that the individual who opened your parcel has spent the better part of the day with his tongue swollen so large he can barely breathe?" Grokton continued.

"Ah was not." Mudmask replied tersely.

"Our mages cannot make sense of the hex. Any normal treatment for this sort of trickery has thus far been rejected. This is taking up time and recourses that we do not have lest we start employing free-lancers and quite frankly we cannot afford to have information about this leaked. We are at war, troll. The Alliance has gotten a stronger foothold in the Southern Barrens and we cannot invite them to our doorstep."

"Commander," Runthak interjected. "The troll is a shapeshifter, perhaps we can employ him to do our research."

"Ah beg pardon, but ah am no alchemist." Mudmask hadn't the slightest idea what to do for an orc with a swollen tongue.

"Honestly, Runthak, with all that has resulted from this would you seriously nominate THIS fool as a trustworthy candidate?" He pointed an aggressive finger towards Mudmask, turning to Runthak and ignoring the troll's disclaimer.

"He clearly knows what the suspect looks like." Runthak continued with exasperation. "The bleaters all hang around on the same island. Surely he could locate her."

"It would definitely prove where his loyalties lie." Grumbled the wall puncher.

Mudmask realized then that they were not talking about the hex victim. "You wan me to locate the huntah?" He gestured to himself as though to confirm their plans. "Mah encounter with her was coincidence why on Azeroth would we need ta be findin' her?"

Grokton turned back to Mudmask as though he were nothing but an annoyance. "We have reason to suspect that your paths crossing was no coincidence. The dragonkin have long since been mutual enemies of both factions, but if someone were to tip the scale – say, confiscate the head of one of their leaders, and plant it in the opposing faction's possession, well, it could get them a lot of attention."

"But how would ya figure dey would go to all dat trouble?"

"Because that's what we were attempting to do to them."


	9. A Faraway Isle

"Rrrrrrraaauuuughaaaau!"

"Vekking no drak jillik from naraka!" The bear swiped at Mudmask with heavy claws. The stench coming from the thing was incredible. The troll rolled to his right side, dodging the blow. In the same movement, he melded into cat form, letting out a resounding roar as though to continue his cursing. The bear gave no reaction to the change in his target's shape; it simply rushed at Mudmask, head down, mangy fur rippling over bulky muscles. Mudmask wanted to leap out of the way, but there was so much bear coming at him that there wasn't much opportunity. Instead, he veered right, taking the hit to his side. He might as well have pitched himself into a mountain, the way he bounced away from the wall of a beast. Landing hard on his paws, he whirled around just in time to see the jaws of the bear gape open before him. Mudmask snapped his head upward, feeling his tusks meet the yielding folds of skin along the underside of the bear's neck. It wasn't enough force to break the flesh, but it was enough to surprise the beast and cause it to rear back onto its hind legs. Mudmask didn't much like the looming sight of the bear readying its claws for another strike, but it gave him enough space between them that he was able to rock back on his haunches and spring forwards towards the rug of a chest in front of him.

This time when he bounced off the bear, it was intentional. All four of his paws made contact with the bear, pushing it backwards as the troll sprung away. The bear roared in protest as it lost its balance, flailing its arms wildly as it toppled backwards. A sharp "ruurf!" was the only thing that confirmed to Mudmask that the bear had fallen, as he was preoccupied with sprinting away across the rust colored grass.

The sun was just beginning to peak its way over the horizon of Bloodmyst Isle. Mudmask had yet to venture very far inward from the coast, but apparently the night before he had been inland enough to catch the attention of the local wildlife. Up until this point, his interactions with local fauna had been limited to moths and… well, moths. To his bewilderment the creatures seemed to gravitate towards him. His first night had been spent using a fallen tree as a lean to against the winds coming in from the sea. He had not slept well, but upon waking up he discovered about four of the large insects perched upon him. They were so light he wouldn't have noticed them at all were he not staring directly at him. That had been a week ago. To say that Mudmask was avoiding his mission would have been a kind way to put it.

Everything was far too red here. The sands of Durotar were all orange and rust, and they were warm. Just the memory of the color sent a heat through his bones. Bloodmyst was reds and pinks all over but it was _cold_. It wasn't a harsh cold, but it sunk in, taking root and serving as a constant reminder that he was never comfortable. Mist had a tendency to creep in from the sea, dusting him with chilly droplets. The beauty of it was lost on him, he wanted to go home. The problem was that he didn't quite know how he was going to manage that.

The plan wasn't simple, not even in theory. In fact it seemed messy and convoluted and it was exactly the level of depth Mudmask attempted to avoid getting into when it came to missions. He should have known better, the Draenei were mystical enough people even if they chose practical lines of work like hunting. She trapped him, he escaped, she had enough knowledge to rig the trophy, and now? It was his move, he supposed.

Grokton wanted to know more about the Alliance strategy to turn outside forces against the Horde. Mudmask didn't understand the urgency of him needing to locate the Draenei, but asking questions was a luxury that the troll wasn't privy to. For all Grokton's urgency, his plan lacked directness.

"You know what she looks like, you find her." Was the gist of it. This was followed by Mudmask's least favorite part of the plan: "I don't want to see your face back in Durotar until you do. You try coming back here and I will have your feline hide displayed in my war room, is that clear?"

So this was the price of his dishonesty. Mudsmask had never been in love with the idea of leaving Durotar, and now to be pitched headlong into Alliance territory was something new and terrifying altogether, not to mention far away. Mudmask's heart hung low in his chest. This felt like banishment. He wondered what Lopside would say – "Don be so dramatic, ye murka!" most likely.

He had spent most of the week in cat form. It was a poor substitute for comfort, but at least it kept him from shivering most of the time. The mornings where he woke up back in troll form were the coldest, but after this morning he decided that he'd rather be woken up by the cold than by cantankerous bears. He wasn't sure what other surprises awaited him on Bloodmyst, but he wasn't enthusiastic to discover them.

Avoiding any trace of Draenei civilization had been easy so far; Mudmask was thankful that none of them seemed inclined towards fishing, at least not on his part of the coast. While as a cat he could cloak himself to a point, the concept of slinking into a village was daunting. Growing up in the Horde, he was never really taught about the individual races that made up the Alliance. They were simply Alliance, and therefore unreasonable, selfish, pompous antagonists. And yet he had the vaguest of memories from the Draenei who rescued him from the ruin of his original home. Their skin had all been blue, like his. They traveled together, and while Mudmask could never have been sure for how long, it was enough to gain his childish trust. Though his recollections were foggy, he didn't come away from the experience thinking the Draenei unkind.

These were sentiments that directly clashed with his acquired view of the Alliance. And indeed, there was no evidence of kindness from the last Draenei he encountered. He had always fostered a fascination with the otherworldly creatures, and the hunter had been no exception. All too clearly he remembered the details of her features – he would certainly be able to identify her if he spotted her, of course that would imply that he had to get somewhere near a Draenei settlement.

Today was as good a day as any, considering that Mudmask now wanted to limit the use of bears as alarm clocks. He had long since decided that flying would be out of the question, as a giant tusked bat would be far too conspicuous. His tusks in any form were an unsubtle disservice when it came to trying to blend in on the island, but at least in cat form he could make himself unseen, and so it was with cautious feet that he said goodbye to the sea and trudged off through the trees.


	10. The Isle has Spiders

Spiders. Why were there spiders? Mudmask didn't much care for spiders. He had suffered enough run ins with them back in Dustwallow that he could have lived the rest of his life content were he to never see one again. But this was Bloodmyst – of course there were spiders. A lot of them – all clustered up against the side of a mountain. From the look of it a valley dipped into the rock, no doubt housing even more of the spindly, skittering arachnids.

He sighed, contemplating the lengthy walk it be to give the monsters a wider berth. It would take longer, but what hurry was he in? Surely the hunter was not waiting for him just beyond the scope of the spiders. The odds of her being on this island at all were low, but Mudmask had chosen to look here first as opposed to stampeding toward the Exodar, where his chances of remaining a secret visitor were dramatically lowered. But if the Alliance were indeed manifesting sabotage strategies against the Horde, Mudmask reckoned he wouldn't necessarily need the hunter to confirm it. Perhaps if he was fortunate he could return with evidence of the Alliance plans and skip the hunter all together. The notion made him feel better.

Even from a fair distance away, wispy lines of spider silk traced delicate patterns across the blades of grass. The threads clustered more thickly the closer they got to the spiders, until the ground beneath them was fully coated with the sticky fibers. Mudmask was careful to stay far away from the more thoroughly covered areas, keeping them to his left. He might have been far enough away to avoid detection, but he cloaked himself just to be safe. Even as he started out, some of the individual strands collected on his paws and trailed along with him. The feeling made him want to shudder, but he suppressed it. The island had been eerily quiet since Mudmask had arrived, but now in the silence he could hear the soft chitters of the spiders and suddenly they still seemed a little too close. He was just about to veer right, walking straight away and forgetting his original path when he heard another noise amidst the clicks and hisses.

It was low, and muffled certainly, but the patterns of it were unmistakable. Someone was yelling. The cries came from what sounded like someone being smothered by a heavy blanket. Mudmask looked back to the spiders, scanning the horrible nesting grounds for the source. He found it, though he wasn't quite sure what he was looking at at first. Tucked into the mountainside there was a clump of spider silk. Mudmask had barely noticed it at all, until it moved. Shifting back and forth, its movement was limited, but decidedly humanoid it its struggling. The reality of what he was looking at hit him.

_Mother of Durotar…_ He thought. _They are saving it for later_. Of course the web-entombed soul was more than likely a Draenei; as far as Mudmask knew they were the only inhabitants of the island. Logically, this was not his problem. In fact the fate of the poor creature was more than enough reason for the druid to make a hasty exit, and yet... _No one deserves that_. He backed away a few steps and stat down on the grass, troubled by his moral compass.

The spiders didn't seem to be paying any particular amount of attention to the squirming mass beneath the webbing. Now and then one would skitter by, but for the most part they seemed preoccupied with whatever was occurring deeper into the valley. Mudmask shuffled, wiping his paws upon the grass in an attempt to brush away the stray strands that had wrapped their way around his claws. Uncontrollably his mind envisioned what it would feel like to be covered in the stuff. He looked back at the captive, then back at his paws. Thrall's balls, how long had he been sitting there deliberating?

A cry broke his concentration. Suddenly the spiders' normal skittering movements erupted into frenzy, heading towards the source of the commotion. A spider was making its way towards the colony, dragging something behind it. Only partially wrapped in the spider silk was a bear, its limbs fully immobilized as the spider hauled it through the grass. The noises coming from the animal were the most unbear-like sounds Mudmask had ever heard. It was a low, stuttering noise, like an ill-working goblin car. Clearly exhausted, the bear's attempts at thrashing about were feeble at best, Mudmask found himself briefly wondering if this was the same bear that had accosted him that morning. A cluster of spiders rushed forward to meet their companion, swarming the bear before it even reached the valley. Silk flowed from their spinnerets, enveloping the beast as it continued its mewling. It was still a good ten feet from the valley entrance before the crowd of spiders dispersed, leaving another bundle not-unlike the one that struggled on the other side of the valley entrance. Mudmask had watched the entire ordeal mouth agape, horrified. After a few more seconds of silently apologizing to the bear for its fate, he lugged himself back to his feet; his whole body felt heavy. Letting out a long sigh to only himself, he stalked towards his moral quandary.

It was no surprise that the ground became much more unpleasant to walk on the closer he got to the nesting grounds. Now and then a spider would skitter a tad too close and he would freeze, not wanting to give his camouflage any extra chances of revealing himself. It was perhaps the longest walk he had ever taken despite the distance not being all that far. The hisses and clicks of the monsters filled his head until he could scarcely hear anything else. Though his focus was primarily on reaching the unlucky soul trapped in the web, his gaze was constantly shifting to the valley and its busy collection of legs.

His target was feet away now; Mudmask would have to change back into a troll in order to cut through the fibers without injuring whoever was inside. He'd be visible, but at least the spiders seemed preoccupied enough that none of them were inclined to check on their meal-in-waiting. He wasn't sure how long this trend would last, but he had already planned to work quickly. The grunts from the captive were far more audible now, Mudmask made his way behind it in the hopes that it would keep his cover when his cloaking no longer would. He took a deep breath, and willed himself into his skin.

"If ya can hear me, ah aim to get ya out of all dis." He uttered softly. The form beneath the wrappings went rigid for a moment; whether the figure understood or not, at least it knew that someone was there.

Mudmask withdrew his skinning knife. "Pleeeaase, be still." He whispered it as much to himself as he did to the figure. Starting from the bottom, the fibers of the silk were astoundingly difficult to sever. He had to rely on a small gap to get his knife through, and from there it was a fair amount of arm work to begin dispelling the fibers. The work was sticky. Every few moments Mudmask had to stop to clear the buildup of fibers as they clung to his hands. Layers of it peeled away to reveal more layers. At least the more he stripped away the softer the inner layers became. The soul beneath it began struggling more, and Mudmask decided that ultimately it was to his advantage, as it was loosing more of the strands.

Progress was steadily wearing at the strands, and the troll surmised it wouldn't take much more to at least liberate the lower half of the captive, who he had determined was most certainly a Draenei – male judging the height of it. The problem however, was that the increased movement had begun attracting some much unwanted attention. Mudmask looked up to the heart stalling sight of two of the spiders scuttling in his direction. He elbowed his squirming companion in what he hoped was the ribs. It responded with a muffled "Oof!" which wasn't necessarily what Mudmask had wanted either, but it did cease its movement. He backed up, adrenaline aiding his transformation back to cat form and further pushing him into camouflage. Had they seen him? Would they notice the diminished hold the cocoon had on its victim?

The hissing that emanated from the bigger of the two spiders was piercing at close range. It clicked and chattered, only to have its companion click and chatter back. Were they _talking_? Mudmask had never considered the unnerving concept that the creatures could actually have a language. The sound of the arachnids certainly unsettled the poor being within the webbing, enough that to Mudmask's dismay, he began shifting uncomfortably. The noise the larger spider responded with was either one of surprise or delight, but it rushed towards the cocoon.

_Loa help me_, Mudmask rocked back on his haunches and bounded in front of the frustratingly unliberated Draenei. The sight of a large, maned cat appearing out of nowhere certainly surprised the spiders. They skittered back as Mudmask materialized with teeth bared and claws wildly swiping. He suppressed the desire to roar, all too aware of how many more spiders could answer to such a call.

The spiders raised their two front legs, displaying the sharp fangs of their mandibles. This called into question all of the decisions Mudmask had made thus far today, but he fought the desire to flee and instead defiantly raked his claws along the bottom-most section of the cocoon. Suddenly, a pair of hooves adorned the tangled mass of web, and the Draenei took this as a sign to resume struggling. Mudmask turned back just in time to dodge the pair of fangs hurtling towards them, attached to the hulking spider. Dashing beneath the bulging body of the first spider, the troll received a reminder of which end the spinneret was housed on, as a burst of web flung itself at the cat, sickly sticking to his back leg.

Mudmask reeled around, rolling over rapidly in an attempt to loose himself from the snare. It didn't much help. Turning back to the spider, he dashed underneath it once more before it could manage to bombard him with more silk. He weaved between the legs on one side, using the strand of silk to entangle the mess of limbs. It wasn't the most intricate of strategies, but it gave him enough sway that the spider was having a difficult time moving away. This worked only as a means of keeping himself beneath the body of the spider; at least it couldn't reach him there.

WHHIFT! The sharp point of the second spider's leg speared the ground in front of the troll. Mudmask backed up, only to find that his ensnarement was caught tight on one of the first spider's legs. He couldn't back up any farther. The second spider moved back, aiming to unleash yet more silk at the rapidly panicking cat. He thrust his tusks upward, gouging the abdomen of the spider above him. It shrieked, legs crumpling. Mudmask inched his way away, scrambling out from beneath the injured beast. It wasn't dead, but its reaction was enough to give Mudmask the time to loop one tusk under the strand that connected him to the monster and snap it. The injured spider created a makeshift barrier between him and the standing spider, but any victory gleaned from breaking free was immediately incinerated by the sight of at least a dozen more giant spiders erupting from the valley nearby and heading towards the commotion.

Flattening his ears, Mudmask snapped his gaze to the Draenei – or at least where the Draenei should have been. It didn't take long to locate the wriggling mass of web, which, while still entangled, the Draenei had wiggled free enough that he was squirming along the ground, desperately trying to crawl away from the fight. He'd made it a fair distance already, though the troll questioned how conspicuous this slow escape would be without him as a distraction. The swarm would be upon them all too soon, and Mudmask still had the second spider to deal with.

It raised its front legs again, ready to strike. The troll was out of ideas; running away was what he needed to do. He couldn't aid the Draenei without calling more attention to it, and carrying it in his cat form was out of the question. If it had any hopes of getting far enough away without getting caught, Mudmask was going to have to take the spider party with him.

_Best of luck, mon_, Mudmask wished silently before letting out the roar he had reserved earlier. The rapidly approaching heard of spiders responded with a collective hiss that swelled up like a wave, filling the troll's ears. In all his bravado, the troll had neglected to take into account the proximity of the second spider, which had since lunged forward, fangs bared. The cat twisted at the sight of the movement, and made a clumsy attempt at dodging the attack. A singular fang, the size of a dagger, sunk into his back thigh. Mudmask bellowed again, claws flying in a frenzy of panic and the need to escape. The struggle free was a blur of grey fur and legs and teeth. He roared once more, less ferociously this time, and lunged in the opposite direction of the Draenei, sprinting across the sticky ground, away from the mountain, away from the valley, away from the stampeding legs.

He could be fast, but only for so long before the heaviness of his cat form caught up with him. He could elect to transform to his faster form, but at this stage he would risk losing more energy and slowing down all the same. Looking behind him seemed a dismal idea, but the hissing never stopped, it never ebbed or waned; instead it was this ever persistent hum that vibrated his bones, motivating him to keep running. Intermittent bursts of web shot past him, and he thanked the spirits that the spiders were not graced with good aim. The web coated ground was being replaced by grass as he pushed on, lungs heaving. But the hissing… Mudmask could only theorize that they were overwhelming cries for his blood.

Trees. There were trees. Not so far away now, but his sprint had given his leg time to acknowledge the wound. What started as a dull thud was now rapidly spiking into sharp jabs each time his leg pushed off the ground. He wasn't running in a straight line anymore, he knew that much. The hissing seemed farther away now, but the troll's attention span was steadily shifting to the pain. By the time he actually reached the trees he scarcely acknowledged that the hissing had died away, spiders not being ones for chasing a meal over long distances. It took Mudmask a little too long to realize that he had stopped at all. He slumped just beyond the tree line, panting heavily. The venom that had been pumped efficiently through his veins from the run was causing saliva to drip from his jaw in long tendrils. He wanted to lie down, though a voice in the back of his head kept nagging at him to stay upright.

The troll's regenerative skills were engaged in battle with the puncture wound. The area surrounding it swelled viciously, seeping fluid as his immune system worked to purge the toxin from his body. His muscles were wracked with tremors, a sudden feeling of cold sweeping over him and settling in his core. His movements were labored as he tried to stand back up, if only to retreat farther into the safety of the trees. The cat had only made it a few painful steps before he sunk back into a position between sitting and collapse.

_This is what you get_, Mudmask thought hazily. His paws pressed heavily into the earth. Flitting worries of being found by bears or Draenei flittered through his mind, but he couldn't clearly focus on any one concept. Vague and terrible scenarios of being torn apart and finding himself in a Stormwind prison cell swirled inside his imagination, feeling all too real one moment and far away the next. Somewhere amidst all this Mudmask had lost the game of sitting upright, flopping onto his good side to continue his struggle.

Mudmask now had a fragile hold on knowing where he was. Gentle shadows circled around him, shielding him from the ice that had seeped into his bones. The air around him seemed to pulse, as though it contained several heartbeats. In his deliriousness he found it comforting. There was something else too, a soft, slow moving pound, but the troll couldn't find the focus to worry over it. Everything around him seemed to be getting darker, enveloping him in relaxing warmth. His thoughts were moving in slow motion, and finding a surreal comfort in the breakdown of time, Mudmask soon stopped arguing with his instincts to stay awake and let the heartbeats lull him away into unconsciousness.


	11. A Rather Long Day

"Buras kaziel, maz ruk ante noklor." A pause, and then "Archim azi lech mannor, na vecher."

His eyes remained closed as he tried to wrap his head around the words. Why couldn't he understand them? Could he just not hear them correctly? Was there something wrong? Yes, of course there was, he'd been bitten by that spider and then –

Immediately his heart was pounding, his eyes flew open to darkness. He'd been caught. The draenei had found him. This was it. Fully aware that he had returned to troll form, his automatic reaction was to push himself back to cat, but the venom had thoroughly depleted his energy reserves. Plan B: he reached for his knife. All of this occurred within the space of three seconds, which was just long enough for the troll's eyes to adjust to the lack of light and realize that he was precisely where he had left himself, he just wasn't alone.

Aside from the moths, which were in the process of silently flitting away in reaction to the troll's panic, a single draenei paced back and forth about 20 yards away. Mudmask couldn't be sure, but the creature's height seemed to rival his own. His skin was also blue, though much paler than the troll's. Large, heavy hooves supported a large heavy torso. At first glance the draenei appeared rather chubby, but his movements were not sluggish or labored, and Mudmask surmised there was a fair amount of muscle behind the round stomach. Its crest was a solid monolith atop its forehead, though Mudmask couldn't have said with any certainty whether it was average sized or large, he thought it bizarre nontheless. He was surprised to notice that the draenei sported a beard; it was the first one he had ever seen on a draenei – not that he had seen that many. The way he paced about, he was clearly troubled, not quite paying attention to the troll.

"Aman mishun noklor. Golad nagas azi kamil. …Rakan bol azi zhlapa." The draenei was talking to himself – more arguing with himself, really. Mudmask figured it was as good a time as any to sneak away quietly into the night, but as he began to lift himself up, his wound reminded him of its existence. The troll let out a small, involuntary grunt. He snapped his head up to see if the draenei had noticed. It had.

"Sha ploch aba!" It exclaimed, not with any real terror, but there was a nervousness in his tone that accompanied the surprise. Both of them froze, eyes locked together, trying to read if one or the other was going to do anything particularly threatening. Mudmask was not the most well built of trolls, what he lacked in muscle definition he made up for in his cat form, but considering that option was off the table for the moment, the prospect of going up against the draenei was fairly daunting.

The moment was tense, but slowly, the draenei put up his hands, palms outward as though to show he was not posing a threat. Mudmask relaxed slightly, though not enough to make the draenei think he was at ease.

"What are ya doin, mon?" Mudmask asked in a low voice, more to himself than anything else.

Though he spoke in orcish on the off chance the draenei understood, it regarded him with a look that was almost sad, as though he were disappointed that he could not understand. Then his eyes lit up. "Aldolnah." He gestured to the troll's leg, which Mudmask suddenly noticed had been cleaned and dressed in silk. He furrowed his brow, bewildered at the gesture.

"Ya… fixed my leg?" He moved his eyes back to the draenei, who seemed quite pleased with himself and nodded at the sound of Mudmask's question.

The draenei then pointed, first with one hand, then the other, waving his hands about as he spoke. It took Mudmask a moment to realize that he was pointing in the direction of the spiders. Mudmask pointed at the draenei, then in the direction of the spiders, then pointed at the ground that they shared.

"You be de one from de spidehs den." He said flatly, piecing the puzzle together. And yet that realization just spawned more questions. It was clear that the draenei had felt indebted to his rescuer, but how did he find him? "…and how long I been out heah?" He was mumbling now, knowing that his words wouldn't mean much.

Indeed the draenei didn't respond to the question. He just kept talking, Mudmask had never seen any being move their hands so much when they talk, it was certainly not a thing many orcs did. Maybe it was excited to see a troll, maybe it was just excited to be alive. Either way, Mudmask had work to do and he had clearly wasted enough time already.

"Listen. Listen, mon." He pushed himself to his feet and raised a hand, trying to get the draenei to stop talking as though he could understand. His leg throbbed whenever he put pressure on it, but he tried not to show it. "Thank ya, fo this," he gestured to his leg and failing to come up with a gesture for "I'll be going now" followed up with a verbal: "Ah'll be goin' now."

He made to walk deeper into the trees, figuring that perhaps he'd spend the night up in the branches if he could manage to climb one in a safe enough area.

"Noklor." The voice called out. Mudmask turned around to see that the draenei had set aside his excitement and now looked concerned.

Mudmask regarded him calmly as he approached. The troll's eyebrows raised however, when the draenei stepped right up to him and held his hand out, as though expecting Mudmask to take it.

"Andor ne lichka sambita lau," he responded to Mudmask's questioning look. Still, he wasn't entirely too keen on making physical contact with the Alliance. The draenei pressed, moving his hand. "Defor nachka, espa muzil de la."

Hesitantly, Mudmask reached out and allowed the draenei to take his hand. The draenei held it gently, and brought up his other hand, pressing a small stone into the troll's palm. He did not release it however, just held on, his hands sandwiching the troll's, cupping the stone.

He kept, talking, and Mudmask was just mentally remarking on how awkward this all felt when he noticed that the stone seemed to be getting warmer. The draenei looked up from their hands and gave Mudmask what he interpreted as a rather apologetic smile. Mudmask gingerly began moving his hand away, but the draenei's grip on his hand remained firm.

"What ya doin, mon?" Mudmask's focus was on their hands.

"De nache, noklor. Sha be las ne." He replied calmly. The stone was borderline hot now, and Mudmask found his heart beating faster, and suddenly he felt a pull – not in any one place but in all places at once. He'd felt it before, Mudmask had been teleported many times, except this time there was no certainty to where he'd wind up.

"Vek." He cursed, and then he was gone.


End file.
